


Moonshine

by MissAdventurous



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Character Study, Choking, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Rimming, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAdventurous/pseuds/MissAdventurous
Summary: One quick, simple visit to the Island shouldn’t have ended with Avilio jumping into bed with Fango of all people. But itdidand Corteo didn’t know if he should be grateful or mortified to be dragged down with him.
Relationships: Corteo/Angelo Lagusa | Avilio Bruno, Corteo/Fango (91 Days), Fango/ Corteo/ Avilio Bruno | Angelo Lagusa, Fango/Angelo Lagusa | Avilio Bruno
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so hilariously late to this fandom, I don’t really expect anyone to read this but I felt compelled to write after finally watching this anime in our year 2020. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you think I missed any tags.

Avilio would say the night started just like any good night should: with a bullet lodged in a Vanetti footsoldier, Corteo at his side, and a bottle of moonshine in his hand. The only thing that could possibly go wrong sat across from him in a pair of assless chaps and cowboy boots. 

Fango folded his hands behind his head, heels kicked up on the desk. The spurs on his boots clicked against the wood pointedly. “Kill Orco?” He feigned a yawn: showing off sharp, dangerous teeth. Avilio bristled, eyes narrowing until he noticed the coy smile settled on Fango’s mouth. “You boys have brought me quite the little proposal—“

Avilio shrugged up a shoulder: “It’s Nero’s idea.”

Fango laughed. He kicked his feet off the desk and sauntered up. “How about you sweeten the pot before I make my decision.” Corteo shot Avilio a look: eyes saucer-wide with his lip trembling.

Avilio leaned toward Fango and hooked his finger through the gawdy feather necklace he wore. “You mentioned a foursome,” He tugged on the chain and pulled Fango in toward him. 

Fango’s mouth split into a grin. His tongue swiped out across his lower lip, “Oh, you two should be plenty for now.” Avilio wondered if his hesitance came from worry for Lacrima— maybe if he had a mistress he was mildly fond of he’d want to look out for her too. Or, equally likely, Fango didn’t want to waste time calling her back. 

Corteo took half a step back away from them, his throat bobbing with nerves. Avilio’s eyes flicked toward him and raised his eyebrow. Corteo gulped, eyebrows pinching together before he nodded back. 

Avilio gave another sharp tug to the necklace. He gathered in close, leaning up onto his tiptoes, “Where’s your bedroom?” So close now that Fango could probably feel his breath ghosting against his lips.

Fango’s eyelids dipped down low and he _grinned._

* * *

Corteo’s hands fumbled with the bottle, nearly dropping it before he set it down on the nightstand. He bit his lower lip and popped out the cork stopper. Avilio came to rest behind him: body solid and warm. Corteo’s breath caught when Avilio’s hands closed on his belt. Nimble fingers undid the buckle, pulled the leather out of the loops with a soft _whish. Corteo tried not to groan when Avilio suddenly backed up._

Avilio shot a look over his shoulder toward Fango and gestured toward the bed with Corteo’s borrowed belt, “Hurry up.” 

Fango held his hands up in a parody of surrender with a big cat-got-canary grin. He kicked off his drawers pooling around his ankles: totally naked now and Corteo could make out the wide, muscled expanse of his torso and the pink scars covering his body. Corteo looked down between his legs and grew lightheaded.

He grappled for the bottle and took a large drink of the moonshine. The spice and burn of it almost enough to have him sputtering out a cough. Corteo shook his head and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Avilio had stripped down to his own drawers: all dead eyed confidence with the belt clapping against one of his palms. Corteo’s hands trembled as he fumbled with his shirt’s buttons. 

Fango flopped down onto the bed, something devious and mean lingering in his gaze, “Come ‘ere.” Corteo stepped forward and slowly sunk down onto the bed. 

He glanced over his shoulder toward Avilio. Fango’s fingers gripped his jaw with bruising strength and twisted his head back toward him. “You the one making the fancy hooch?” Corteo managed to nod. Fango grinned at him, “Let’s have a taste.” 

Corteo’s answering gasp got trapped between their mouths as Fango surged forward to kiss him. He always imagined his first kiss would be with some pretty girl— _or Angelo—_ that it’d be a soft, gentle thing. He never would’ve imagined being firmly shoved down onto his back, buttons of his shirt ripped off, and a warm tongue pressing into his mouth. Corteo squeezed his eyes closed, tried to pretend, and ended up moaning at the feel of Fango’s mouth on his. It ended way too quick and the cool air felt bitter on his kiss-swollen lips. 

Fango settled back on his haunches and licked his lips. “Good.” Corteo assumed he had to mean the taste of booze lingering in his mouth because certainly he’d been a horrible kisser— 

“Done playing around?” Avilio knelt down on the bed then, head cocked to the side with a smug look on his face. Shivers raced down Corteo’s back as he struggled to pull off his ripped shirt. Fango backed up from him and laid out across the bed, utterly unabashed with his nudity. Corteo blinked rapidly in an effort to not stare.

“I’m just getting started, boy,” Fango threw his head back and laughed. He grinned at Avilio, bubbling with barely concealed eagerness. Avilio hummed low in his throat and moved to straddle his hips. Fango’s hand dipped between Avilio’s legs, palming at the growing hardness under the thin cotton of his drawers.

Avilio only raised up a thin eyebrow. He stretched the belt out between his hands, “Roll over.” Fango grinned but did as he’d been ordered. Avilio turned that same dark stare to Corteo, “Hold him down.”

Corteo swallowed past a lump in his throat. He moved to kneel by Fango’s head and gathered his wrists up together. From this angle Corteo could see the mangled scar tissue of his back: old and paled white, freshly pink, others bruised and still inflamed. 

The belt came down with a sharp hiss of air and smacked against the flesh of his back. Corteo recoiled on impulse, fingernails digging into the skin of Fango’s arms. “Yes! Harder!” Avilio straightened up and brought the belt down _again_ and _again—_ Fango moaned loudly, arms lurching against Corteo’s grip. Corteo pressed down harder and blood bubbled up against his short nails from crescent gauges. Another hit of the belt and Fango’s back split open into a mess of fresh welts and cuts. 

“Give me the moonshine,” Avilio jutted his chin out to where the bottle sat on the nightstand. Corteo planted his knee down on Fango’s wrists and reached for the bottle. His fingers shook when he passed it to Avilio.

Avilio took a long drink before he tipped the bottle over. The amber liquid splashed down across Fango’s shoulder blades. “Yes!” He shouted at the sharp sting, voice sounding raw and gravelly. Corteo stumbled trying to adjust his grip to keep him pinned. 

Avilio bent over, flat of his tongue drawing a long line up Fango’s spine— over the wretched mixture of blood and moonshine. Corteo trembled watching him, glasses slipping further down his nose. 

Avilio reached over and lifted off his glasses. He set them down on the nightstand and his finger pressed under Corteo’s chin. Avilio guided his head up and leaned closer. Bleary-eyed with arousal churning in his gut, Corteo couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him. Avilio tasted disturbingly like blood, like alcohol, but also something painfully saccharine— like a sugary sweet children’s treat. Corteo smiled against his mouth.

Avilio’s hand pressed down on Fango’s back. His sharp nails dug in and he scratched downward and a broken, desperate moan bubbled up from Fango’s mouth. Corteo knew he _should_ be disgusted, but something was so strange and so wretched that he couldn’t help his own answering groan. 

Avilio backed up suddenly, reaching for the forgotten belt and bringing it back down onto Fango’s back. Fango arched up, hips pressing down against the mattress. “C’mon, _harder_!” The alcohol must’ve burned with each welt and Corteo shuddered at the thought. 

Avilio continued to hit him though and Fango’s answering moans only grew in intensity. He let out a sharp noise, something guttural that caught in his throat. His hips pumped forward against the bed— Corteo _tried_ not to watch, but couldn’t quite help it. Avilio smiled, close-lipped and smug for a moment, before he scooted off Fango. 

Fango rolled over onto his back— Corteo tried not to stare at his flaccid length or the wet stain on the sheets. Fango folded his hands up behind his neck. He breathed out a soft sigh even as a smug smile rested on his mouth, “Well, boys, I think we can have some fun together— you can tell Nero I’m looking forward to hearing about his little plan.”

Avilio unfolded himself from the bed— a perfect picture of unaffected grace, “I’m glad we have an understanding.”

Corteo scampered up from the bed, trying to hide signs of his own arousal, only to feel a sharp smack against his ass. He lurched forward and twisted around to see Fango grinning at him. An ugly, ruddy flush burned across Corteo’s face.

Fango had the audacity to _whistle_ at him.

* * *

Corteo exhaled slowly. Bundled back inside his ruined shirt the cold night air bit through the worn-out cotton. Still his skin felt too warm and prickly— he couldn’t chase the thought of Avilio, of _Fango_ , out of his mind; it’d left something hot and dangerous curdling in his stomach. Corteo shook his head and inhaled sharply. His nose twitched at the smell of stale brine wafting up from the river. 

He shoved a finger under his nose, “Angelo,” Even under darkness, alone next to the river that name felt so _dangerous_. He cleared his throat and spoke louder, “Avilio.” 

Avilio cocked his head toward him. Patient and expectant. Almost like a cat watching for a stupid mouse to rush from a hole in the drywall. 

Corteo swallowed and leaned toward where Avilio still stood on the dock “ _Avilio_. About Orco...”

Avilio glanced over his shoulder toward the island and the bright twinkling lights of Fango’s sordid palace. “Be quick,” he tucked his hands into his pockets, “Fango will notice if I take too long.”

Corteo rubbed his palms against the knees of his pants, “What’s your plan?” He could feel bile crawling up his throat when he remembered Fango’s request to keep a hostage. 

Avilio cocked up one of his brows but otherwise his expression didn’t shift. He sighed and shrugged up his shoulder. 

“Avilio,” Corteo’s teeth closed over his bottom lip, “He won’t have a plan.” 

“He’ll think of something.”

Corteo shook his head, “He won’t.” 

“Then _I_ will.” He knelt down beside the boat, hand closing on the lapel of Corteo’s jacket. Corteo twisted up toward him, head tipping back. “I’ll take care of it.” 

Corteo wanted to say something, _anything_ , but all words left him when Avilio’s mouth closed over his. The kiss felt warm and soft, absolutely perfect even though he reeked of booze and stale cigarettes. 

Avilio drew back far too quickly. A close-lipped smile rested on his mouth, “Hurry back, Corteo.” Then he twisted on his heel.

Corteo felt the name rushing from his mouth in a rush, “Avilio!” Avilio turned back to look and Corteo held up his hand in a wave, folding over all of his fingers but his pinky. 

Avilio smiled again— this one making his eyes crinkle. Still, he slipped back underneath the amber streetlights of the island roadway.


	2. Chapter 2

Corteo nearly jumped out of his skin when the heavy arm came crashing down around his shoulders. The smell of Fango’s cheap cologne reached him first, then the feel of his breath against his ear. Corteo cringed away but Fango held onto him like a vice. “You’ll never guess what a little birdy told me.” Corteo’s eyebrows pinched together into a tight furrow. Fango squeezed his shoulder, “A birdy named Cerotto.”

Corteo gulped, “O-oh?” 

Fango hummed low in his throat, “Apparently a certain _someone_ ,” His slow drawl on the last word made it obvious the someone in question had to be Corteo, “Has never ever _laid with a woman_ before.” Corteo’s face blanched white with shock. His hands twisted up into fists and he could just imagine wringing Cerotto’s neck, the filthy little traitor— 

Avilio, who hadn’t been paying a lick of attention to them before, suddenly turned toward them. He tipped his head to the side with vague interest. Shame flooded Corteo’s face and he imagined melting into the floor in a puddle. 

Fango _laughed_ at him, before turning a big, cocksure grin to Avilio. “Had me wondering if that extended to _men_ too.” Avilio looked _way too curious_ for that not to be an answer in and of itself. Fango clicked his tongue and decided to ask anyway, “Avilio pop your cherry yet, Corty-baby?” He puckered his lips up with a condescending lilt to his voice.

Corteo twisted out from under his arm. “Leave me alone.” Fango’s hand closed on the back of his shirt and tugged him back into place. 

Avilio took a step toward them and tipped his head back. His eyes looked hooded and dark, “What do you want the answer to be, Fango?” 

Fango’s grin widened into something hungry and dangerous, “We can have loads of fun, kid.” He gave one small, condescending pat to Corteo’s shoulder. His hand slipped down to the small of Corteo’s back and he hated the warm butterflies that flip-flopped in his gut. 

“We can,” Avilio agreed and took one side step toward Fango. He gestured with his chin to where Fango’s bedroom door stood partially ajar. Fango followed his gaze and positively _leered_.

Corteo looked over his shoulder to where the rest of the manor stood eerily quiet. He squinted to his eyes as he tried to catch a glimpse of Cerotto, Fango’s mistress, or even one of the Vanetti’s— other than the wind rusting the curtains of an opened window, nothing moved. Corteo pulled his lower lip into his mouth and inhaled sharply. 

Fango moved away from him then, left his side feeling empty and cold. Avilio moved forward and gripped the collar of Fango’s shirt to tug him in close. Corteo watched his other hand dip down between Fango’s legs and give a long, languid squeeze. Fango breathed out a moan. 

Avilio looked at him with a wicked darkness in his gaze. His teeth closed on his earlobe and gave a tug, “Do you think you can handle _me_?” His hand tightened its grip and Fango’s moan pitched out high.

But he still managed to return the look with a grin, “Well now, kiddo, let’s go find out.” Before they tumbled through the bedroom door together Fango gave Corteo a look, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Corteo didn’t know what to say so he settled for just _nodding_ dumbly. Then the door slammed shut and Corteo’s heart dropped into his stomach.

* * *

Avilio pushed his hair back off his forehead. Sweat beaded along his hairline and his heart thumped in his veins. Underneath him, Fango’s body felt solid and warm. Avilio’s fingernails dug into the skin of his sternum as his thighs quivered with exertion. 

The ache and burning stretch settled low in his gut, left him feeling like could just _almost_ still be alive. He rolled his hips down, settling into an easy rhythm. He liked how Fango looked at him: like a bear shoved into a zoo cage, fighting against the bars for a scrap of meat on the other side. Fango’s hips pushed up to meet him.

Avilio’s hands closed around Fango’s neck. His eyes lit up with excitement, tongue poking out between his lips. A hiss of air escaped him, _“Yes.”_ Avilio started to squeeze, savoring the sounds of air leaving his lungs. 

Avilio groaned low in his throat when Fango’s hands gripped onto his flank, encouraging him faster. The gasps for air, pain of nails digging into his skin, and the hardness moving inside him left him feeling giddy with lightheadedness.

Avilio could picture all of their fucking faces: Vanno, Nero, and Vincent— his hands tightened and Fango’s hips bucked up into him harder. Avilio gasped, grip momentarily slackening. Fango inhaled a ragged breath, pupils blown wide and his eyes bloodshot. 

“Keep going.”

Avilio’s legs ached, hips losing their rhythm and falling into a faster, erratic pace. He gripped Fango’s neck again— could feel his pulse jumping under his fingers. Avilio imagined blood splattering on his hands, a knife buried in their guts. Fango croaked out an eager groan— face blotchy and purple as he fought to breath.

One of Fango’s hands closed on his hardness and started to pump him in time. The rhythm didn’t quite match, but Avilio didn’t care— he could feel pleasure humming low in his stomach. His head tipped back, giving in and squeezing as hard as he could. For a moment his whole world whited out.

When he came back to himself, his thighs felt sticky and wet, his own grip having slackened without him realizing. Fango looked _rabid_ with want. 

Avilio groaned as Fango twisted on top of him. He grappled to hold onto his shoulders, legs locked firmly around his waist. Fango’s hips bore down roughly, pumping forward. A broken, wretched moan forced its way out of Avilio’s mouth. He felt oversensitive but _alive_ and burning hot— 

Avilio narrowed his eyes at him, nails biting into his shoulders, _“Harder.”_ Fango grinned at him with knife-sharp teeth but did what he’d been told. 

Afterward, Fango rolled off of him and landed on his back with a soft _thump_. He stretched out his stiff arm and legs. Avilio sat up and yawned. 

He passed up to his feet and started pulling on his drawers and pants. He squinted his eyes in search of his shirt. 

“You planning to keep Corteo all to yourself?” Fango lounged on his side, his chin balanced up in his palm. He feigned disinterest but his eyes looked razor sharp. 

Avilio grabbed his shirt and slipped one of his arms into the sleeve, “What will you do if I am?” Fango’s teeth glinted in the darkness. Avilio shrugged his shirt up, “Let me break him in— if he’s good, I’ll share.” He smoothed down his collar, “I _did_ promise you a threesome, didn’t I?”

Fango laughed, “Now that’s the spirit, my boy!”

* * *

Corteo hadn’t exactly _meant_ to wait outside of Avilio’s door— but he couldn’t sleep and he’d been plagued with visions of _Avilio_ , and of _Fango, together_. So with that in mind, setting up in a plush chair right next to his door didn’t seem _that_ crazy. Corteo tucked his hands under his arms, head bobbing forward. Exhaustion washed over him like a blanket. Corteo didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep or not, but he woke up with a stiff neck and Avilio staring down at him.

Avilio looked totally unaffected, if not for his shirt buttons being crooked. His eyes widened a bit, head tipping to the side as he took in Corteo’s probably horrible appearance— he had to smell like stale booze and day-old clothes. 

Corteo cleared his throat: “How was it?” He shook his head, “ _No_ , wait—” 

“It was good.”

Corteo’s shoulders slumped downward, “I didn’t know you were into _that_.” He stared up through his limp bangs and saw Avilio shrug. 

Avilio twisted open his door and gestured for Corteo to come in. Corteo felt like a moth drawn to flame, couldn’t imagine a world where he’d ever say no. 

Corteo pressed the door closed, standing in front of it as though maybe Avilio would try to bolt out and leave him. He felt irrational and his heart thumped so quickly in his chest it hurt. Avilio came to rest in front of him, hand skimming down against his jacket lapel.

Corteo’s breath caught in his throat, “Avilio—”

“I always wanted you,” Avilio smoothed out the wrinkles along Corteo’s jacket. Corteo grew lightheaded, knees turning to jello as he pressed his back against the door. 

Avilio gathered close to him and pressed their mouth together. Corteo grew weak, hand gripping onto Avilio’s arm with the fear he could fall otherwise.

It all felt like a rush: Avilio’s hands helping him out of his clothes. He felt light headed and far too hot. He grew nearly faint at the sight of Avilio’s pale body as he peeled off his own clothing. Corteo had seen him naked before, when they’d been young, but it hadn’t been the _same_ ; hadn’t felt anything like _this._ Under warm candlelight with just the two of them— it felt like the world could just _stop_ at the edge of the bed. Their own little world where nothing could rip them apart. 

Corteo wondered if Avilio felt the same; beautiful, confident, terribly _sad_ Avilio. And Corteo worried he’d drown looking at the deep embers of his eyes. Then again, Corteo realized, he’d started drowning the instant Angelio arrived back on his doorstep. 

Corteo felt a flush biting at the tip of his ears, burning a trail down across his chest. Avilio’s hands closed on his knees, eased his legs apart. Corteo trembled, looking to the side as Avilio settled down between his thighs. He felt so _wanton_ and bare, his eagerness on full display and for a moment he wanted to cover back up. Then Avilio’s fingertips traced slow circles against his hip. 

Corteo propped himself up on his elbows. Avilio pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses down his stomach. A nervous inhale stuttered in his chest, “Avilio—” 

Avilio’s mouth slipped into a close-lipped smile, “You want to call me Angelo,” Corteo shook his head. The flat of Avilio’s tongue dragged along the jut of his hip bone, _“I can tell.”_

Avilio’s fingers stroked down along his inner thigh. Corteo’s legs trembled and he stiffly inhaled. Avilio’s finger pressed between his legs. Corteo braced himself, squeezing his eyes closed— but Avilio’s finger pressed into him so easily. Corteo exhaled shakily and forced his eyes open. The sight of Avilio knelt between his thighs, the stretch of him _inside_ him left Corteo feeling light headed. 

Avilio looked up at him through the dark curtain of his bangs; his gaze teasing— Corteo thought he looked fond too, at least he hoped so. Avilio pressed a kiss against his thigh, breath warm against his skin, “Relax.”

Corteo nodded, his legs trembled with repressed nerves, “Avilio,” before he could finish his words broke off into a sharp groan when Avilio’s mouth closed over him properly; so quickly and so wet and warm it left him delirious. He collapsed down on his back, whole world centering on the feel of Avilio. 

Avilio’s finger crooked inside him and had him seeing stars. Corteo couldn’t help it, his voice came out soft and intimate: “ _Angelio_.” Avilio’s cheeks hollowed out around him and forced a broken moan from his mouth. 

Corteo’s hands twisted up on the sheets, heels digging into the mattress to try and ground himself. He worried he really _would_ drown and that he’d decide he just didn’t care.

* * *

The savory, buttery taste of lasagna melted in Corteo’s mouth. He stabbed the prongs of his fork through the pasta, cutting it up into little indistinguishable pieces. 

He stood up from the table, going to scrap the reminder of his plate off into the trash. Cerotto rushed into the room like a bat straight out of hell. 

Cerotto grabbed onto his sleeve, “You didn’t eat the lasagna did you?”

“Why?” Corteo’s eyebrows pinched together. 

Cerotto’s face blanched a strange shade of green. He leaned in close and whispered too loudly, “I’m the one who had to shove _pieces of Orco_ into the grinder.” Corteo clapped a hand over his mouth. Acid bile burned up his throat and he worried he’d really be sick all over the floor. 

Cerotto fumbled in his jacket and offered a flask out to him. Corteo accepted it with a grateful nod and took a large drink. The burn of alcohol only _just_ disguised the taste of the lasagna. 

Avilio leaned up against the wall and took another large forkful of lasagna. Corteo’s throat closed up, wondering if he hadn’t heard— but then Avilio stared across the room at Nero: a dark almost manic glare coloring his eyes and he _swallowed_. He licked his lips and hummed low in his throat.

Corteo swallowed heavily and held the flask back out to Cerotto, “Is Fango off celebrating?”

Cerotto nodded, “Oh yeah— with Lacrima of course.” He took the flask back and took a long sip. 

And Corteo could’ve been imagining the hungry look that momentarily consumed Avilio’s face. Corteo desperately longed for another drink of moonshine.


	3. Chapter 3

Avilio flipped through the billfold— expensive leather facing embossed with a series of roses. He tucked the money in his pocket and dropped the emptied wallet on the bed. He shoved the lacy underthings and dresses into the opened suitcase. He snapped it closed and opened up the window. He shoved the suitcase through, watching it land squarely on the brush down below. 

Avilio slipped out of the door, closing the door behind him. He tucked his hands into his pockets and walked down the stairs. He looked around slowly, making sure none of Fango’s or Vanetti’s family meandered in the main room. 

Avilio circled around the back of the building and hefted the suitcase up. 

Lacrima stood out by the water, bundled up in her thick fur coat. Her plump cheeks flushed red from the cold. She frowned when she noticed him, “Avilio! Corteo, the little minx, said Fango wanted me—”

Whatever she would’ve said next cut off with a sputter of blood dripping from her mouth. Her eyes looked saucer wide, one shaking hand pressing at the hole in her stomach. Her hand came back damp with blood that’d soaked through her shirt. Her lip wobbled before her eyes went glassy and she collapsed.

Avilio tucked the still-warm gun back into the waistband of his pants. He chucked the suitcase off into the water and took ahold of her legs. He wondered briefly if he should tie stones to her, but thought better of it— even if she was discovered, it was unlikely anyone would really care. 

He took a hold of her ankles and dragged her closer to the river. He straightened up, heel of his foot planting on her side and pushing her off into the murky water of the bay.

* * *

Cerotto plopped down on the sofa across from Corteo. He looked over his shoulder, nodded to myself and thenshifted closer. “Hey, Corteo,” he dropped his voice down into a hush, “You hear about Lacrima?” He rubbed his hands together.

“Fango’s mistress?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cerotto nodded solemnly, “He’s been throwing a real fit— guess she pocketed his money and ran.”

Corteo frowned, “Why would she do that?”

“Maybe _she,_ like you,” Cerotto leaned over and patted his knee, “Didn’t wanna run with the mafia anymore,” He threw his hands up, “Anyway, I’m sure being a don’s girl is a lotta pressure.” 

Corteo’s lips pinched into a tight frown, “Is it?”

Cerotto shrugged up his shoulders, “I dunno.” He scratched at the side of his head, “Isn’t it?” He sighed, “Oh well, pretty sure if he finds her he’s gonna...” Cerotto clicked his tongue and ran his index finger along his throat. 

Corteo frowned and looked down at his lap. “Oh.” 

Cerotto nodded grimly, “Oh yeah— anyway, maybe best to lay low— he’s already shoved your fellow Vanettis off on another odd job—”

The door busted open in a splinter of wood and broken hinges. Corteo lurched backward over the arm of the couch. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. 

He saw the rush of a large body stumbling away from the opened doorway. He held up his hands and shook his head, “Wait, Fango—!” A gunshot broke through the air and he crumpled down to the side. 

Fango strutted through the doorway, revolver pointed toward the man trying to crawl away. “Hey, Carmelo, you know what I do to rats?”

The man, Carmelo, clutched at the wound in his calf, “Fango, I’m not—” Fango fired right next to his leg. Carmelo fell sideways and let out a sharp groan in pain.

Corteo stumbled up to his feet, staring desperately at where Cerottto had hunkered down to hide behind the couch. Fango whistled loudly and Corteo jerked his head to look at him.

“Hey, Corteo, you ever kill a man before?” Fango sauntered forward. The heel of his foot came slamming down on Carmelo’s leg. 

Corteo took a step backward and shook his head. His throat came out gravelly and weak, “No.”

Fango pointed the gun toward _him_ then, cocking the hammer back. “Come here.” Corteo took a stumbling step toward him. Fango grabbed his arm and pulled him against his front. Corteo’s fingers felt numb, went limp as Fango forced the gun into his hand.

He could hear Carmelo begging, but the actual words were lost amongst the rushing in his ears. Corteo squeezed his eyes closed. Fango’s chin hooked over his shoulder, index finger closing over his on the trigger. 

“Open your eyes.” 

Corteo inhaled sharply and forced his eyes open. Carmelo looked desperate: bullet wound on his stomach and leg bleeding out in a puddle around him, eyes wide and breaths escaping in labored pants.

Fango’s words were burning hot against his ear, “Do it.” 

Corteo’s lips pinched together, a whimper slipping out of his mouth before he could help it. Fango’s finger squeezed down on his, the trigger pressing down— Corteo recoiled at the gunshot. 

Corteo looked at the hole bubbling up blood in the center of Carmelo’s forehead. Corteo’s hand slipped off the gun, heard it rattling to the ground. His eyes stared lifelessly up at them, mouth dropped open to gape.  
Corteo gagged against the back of his hand. 

“Cerotto!” Fango shouted. He kicked Carmelo’s side, “Come clean this shit up!” 

Corteo planted his hands on his knees, vision wobbling dangerously. His vision blackened at the edges and he worried he’d pass out.

* * *

Avilio slipped through the door. Corteo’s normally ruddy skin looked paler, almost grey. He held up one shaky hand toward Avilio and tried to force his lips up into a smile anyway. The expression looked grim on him. He looked almost like a puppet whose sad little strings had been cut.

Avilio came to sit across the end of the bed from him. He held up the bottle of Lawless Heaven and gave it a small shake. Corteo breathed out a grateful sigh and sniped the bottle up from his hands. 

Avilio watched him take a long drink of the moonshine before he asked: “What happened?” 

Corteo stared down at his hand, tremors still coursing through him. He shook his head, “I killed someone.” 

“Who?”

“One of Fango’s—” Corteo inhaled sharply, “He made me.” He dropped his head into his hands, “The look in his eyes.”

Avilio hummed low in his throat. He picked up the bottle and stared down at the liquid sloshing inside, “You had no choice then.” 

_“Still_ , Avilio,” Corteo looked up at him: sad and desperate with his glasses slipping down his nose. He exhaled a shaky breath.

“He was a part of the family,” Avilio shrugged up a shoulder, “He knew what he signed up for.” He took a sip of the booze, pleasant burn biting at his throat. 

Corteo blanched out a humorless laugh: “Then what have we signed up for?” 

Avilio’s hand moved to cradle his jaw and tip his face toward him. Corteo’s eyes looked so wide and painfully earnest. “We’re _brothers_ , aren’t we, Corteo?” 

“Yes,” Corteo ruefully shook his head, loose hair slipping down across his forehead, “Although that sounds rather sordid and incestuous now.”

Avilio’s fingertips stroked down against his jawline. Corteo lifted up a hand, closing it over Avilio’s. His eyes slipped closed and gave a soft squeeze to his palm.

* * *

Fango’s heels were kicked up over the bar, leaning so far back on the bar stool he looked liable to fall off. Corteo, foolishly and perhaps childishly, wanted to tug at Avilio’s sleeve and pull him away. He’d reached out toward him anyway. Fango’s eyes snapped up toward them.

“If it isn’t my two favorite Vanetti dogs.”

Corteo’s hand dropped down to hang at his side and Avilio walked further into the warm darkness of the room, “If I’m a dog, Fango, you’ll need a shorter leash.” Fango tipped his head back with a sharp laugh. 

Corteo spotted a half-finished bottle of Lawless Heaven and a pack of cigarettes on the counter. He breathed out a sigh. Fango twisted out of his chair and spun out into the center of the room, as though showing them some particularly grand masterpiece, even though they’d both already been there many times before. 

Still, he looked different now— no more ridiculous cowboy boots or chaps— with his hair slicked back and his maroon dress sleeves rolled up, he looked like a proper don. Maybe more dangerous now too, Corteo thought with a tight frown. 

Avilio eyed the empty room before he turned toward Fango and arched up a brow, “No Lacrima?” Something _dark_ lingered in his gaze and gripped Corteo’s heart like a vice; he could hear a ringing in his ears, because surely Avilio hadn’t, he couldn’t— Corteo’s heart hammered in his chest because surely Avilio had heard, it’d been over a week, no way he couldn’t have known already.

Fango’s mouth twisted into something tight and mean— a reaction that made Avilio’s eyes light up. But Fango feigned disinterest with the shake off his head, “And here I thought you wanted my undivided attention.” Corteo felt nearly manic with the want to remind him that _technically_ his attention was still divided between the two of them; he could only breathe out a sigh instead. 

Avilio stepped toward Fango, hand pressing squarely on his sternum, “Maybe I do.” He tipped his head toward him and eased him into a kiss. It looked intimate, sounded positively _lurid—_ Corteo stumbled toward the bar and took a swig of the moonshine. The burn of the alcohol leveled him out for a moment. He looked back toward them, kissing so vividly, and his stomach rolled with barely contained arousal. He fumbled with the cigarettes in an effort to wrestle one free. 

By the time he’d finally got one, he heard Fango’s loud laugh: “Take a look at you,” he sauntered toward him. Corteo tried to strike the stupid match, cigarette balanced between his lips, but his shaking hands felt _useless_. “How’d I not notice it before?” 

Corteo’s voice came out muffled around the cigarette, “What?” 

“I’d say my little birdy was telling the truth before,” Fango flipped a lighter out of his pocket. Corteo eyed the little orange flame warily. He sighed before he leant over and let Fango lit the cigarette. Corteo took a long drawl, his stomach still humming with nerves. 

Corteo shook his head, “I’m fine.” He grabbed the neck of the bottle and walked to a chair further down. Fango followed him, only _just_ giving him space: but his gaze felt hungry and cloying. Corteo set the moonshine back on the counter and nearly collapsed down onto a stool, cigarette balanced between his fingers. 

Avilio came closer, he pressed a hand firmly against Fango’s chest and pushed him down onto a stool. “He _was_ telling the truth,” Avilio cocked his head to the side, voice dipping down soft and smug, “At the time.” Fango held his hands up in a parody of surrender, pink of his tongue poking out between his lips. His eyes looked like they could be glowing with interest.

Avilio plucked the cigarette from Corteo’s fingers and took a long drawl. He leaned over and blew a puff of smoke out in front of Fango’s face, _“Stay.”_ Fango lunged toward him anyway and his hand closed over the collar of Avilio’s shirt. Avilio stared down his nose at him.

Corteo took the cigarette back before Avilio could drop it. He flicked off the stray line of ash and took another drag. The smoke bit at his lungs and he tried not to inhale too desperately. Fango shot him a sideways glance, “Oh, try to relax, kid.”

Corteo slumped over, smoke spilling from his mouth when he spoke, “I am relaxed.” Fango grinned at him with unabashed pleasure at his apparently obvious failure. The tips of Corteo’s ears burned. 

Avilio reached out again and Corteo let him take the cigarette. His other hand popped one of the buttons on Fango’s shirt. His fingertips drummed against his sternum. “Can I?” He raised the cigarette and quirked up an eyebrow. 

“Knock yourself out,” Fango craned his neck back, watching as Avilio brought the still burning cigarette close to the skin of his chest. Avilio pressed the butt into his chest. Corteo heard the sizzle, could smell burning flesh— he clamped a hand over his mouth and tried not to gag. 

Fango gritted his teeth with a low moan reverberating through him. His eyelashes flickered, eyes hazy with pleasure— and _that_ wantonness left Corteo lightheaded. Avilio flicked the cigarette butt down to the ground and looked at the ugly, red burn before he pressed his mouth against it. Fango let out a low groan as Avilio sucked a bruising kiss against the wound. 

Avilio stood back up too quickly, Fango letting out a grunt in protest. Corteo swallowed dryly, legs shifting to try and hide his obvious interest.

The bar doors slamming open could’ve been a gunshot. Corteo jumped up out of his seat, tucking his hands up under his arms and pretending like _anything else_ had been going on. 

Barbero stood by the door, looking at the three of them like they were butterflies pinned on a board. His eyes narrowed momentarily and Corteo could have _laughed_ he felt so hysterical.

Barbero tipped his head to Avilio as though waiting for an explanation. Instead, Avilio continued to stare at him with barely contained indifference. Barbero’s upper lip curled up, “Nero would like to speak with you.” 

Avilio nodded and left without even a backward glance even as Fango’s sharp laughter followed him out. Barbero’s eyes narrowed at Fango, then at Corteo. But he didn’t say anything else, just pivoted on his heel and left. 

“I,” Corteo stammered and had to swallow to try and collect himself, “I have to go.” He pointed toward the doorway before he rushed from the room.

Fango had the audacity to call out to him: “Come back soon!” Corteo could only cringe at his words and hope no one else heard.


	4. Chapter 4

Corteo stumbled back, ankle catching on a hard mass before he tumbled down. A groan caught in his throat at the pain lacing up his leg. The scent of blood reached him first: heavy and metallic. 

He gagged, face blanching green when he saw Scusa: his dead, sallow eyes locked up at the ceiling, and the _meat_ spilling from the hole gauged in his head. Corteo clamped a hand over his mouth— the detergent on his sweater and scent of moonshine temporarily blocking the smell of _blood_. His eyes widened: so, so much blood— he could feel it seeping into the seat of his pants. 

Corteo tried to stumble away from the body, bruised ankle aching in protest and hands grappling for purchase. He gasped at the tacky liquid soaking between his fingers, _still warm—_

And Fango just grinned at him: showing off piercingly white teeth. From his hand that wretched paper, _his recipe_ , fluttered down onto the desk. Fango tapped the golf club against his palm as he took a jaunty, dancing step forward. 

Corteo’s mouth felt heavy with cotton-stickiness. He tried to speak and could only muster a simple croak. Fango’s grin dropped down, _disappointed._ He twisted on his heels, shrugging up his shoulders, “Maybe I’ll just give Nero-baby a call.” He tucked the golf club back against the desk, reaching for the phone, “Let him know I found his little rat.” 

Corteo’s head pounded, the world greying out of focus. He could only think about the blood rushing in his veins and the rank puddle cooling all around him. Corteo stumbled up and limped forward. Fango twisted toward him, phone cord twirled around his finger.

Corteo’s numb hand closed on glass, he felt the sharp burn of alcohol on his hands— hadn’t even realized he’d been cut— heard the squeal of glass shattering and he lunged forward: teeth bared in a snarl, more like an animal than a man.

The feel of flesh parting reverberated up through the glass, the sick squelch, then the _smell_. Corteo gagged, fumbling backward. 

Fango _grinned_ at him, shards of glass broken off into the meat of his shoulder. Corteo’s gut curdled: he’d missed his neck or eyes or anything _important_ — “Mm, that feels good, boy.”

Corteo saw the paper on the desk: the ugly, hateful scribblings. He grabbed onto it and the crusted blood on his hands smeared over the words. He tore and ripped at it, throwing the little pieces of paper aside like confetti. Fango laughed at him, high pitched and mean. Then he lurched forward. 

Corteo’s hands scrambled for the phone. Fango’s fist clipped him squarely in the stomach. Corteo gagged, fingers tangling up on the cord. Then the back of Fango’s hand connected with his jaw. Blood spurted out of his split lip as he collapsed. Fango followed him down, hand closing on Corteo’s neck. His fingers tightened and Corteo’s world narrowed to a pinprick. His other hand grabbed onto Fango’s: bloody fingers slipping in their effort to pry him off. 

Corteo gave a hard tug on the cord, heard the clatter of the phone past his own gasps for air. He grappled for it and tried to ignore the burning in his chest, the wheezing from his mouth. His hand closed over the weight and smacked it against Fango’s injured shoulder. 

Fango’s grip loosened. Corteo sucked in a mouthful of air, coughing past the ache rattling through his body. He hiccuped, defiantly staring up past the cracked frame of his glasses, “You still need me.” He swallowed past the taste of blood in his mouth. He gestured with his chin to where the recipe laid in pieces.

“Corty _, baby_ ,” Fango’s fingers tightened around the collar of his shirt, “We already went over this.” He sat back on his haunches, the weight of his body punishingly heavy against Corteo’s stomach. 

Corteo bared his teeth in a desperate, angry snarl. Fango’s eyes crinkled up and he plucked Corteo’s broken glasses off his nose. Corteo’s hands scrambled for purchase, thumb digging into the sluggishly bleeding wound on Fango’s shoulder. Fango hissed out a breath and narrowed his eyes with interest. 

Corteo’s voice came out soft, “You still want me,” Not Avilio-suave like he’d wanted but wobbling and desperate. He tightened his grip and felt warm blood oozing out between his fingers. Fango threw his head back and _laughed_. Corteo sucked in a breath. 

He could see the bulge tenting the front of his slacks, feel the slight wiggle of his hips adjusting. “What are you offering, boy?” Fango’s voice sounded ragged and heavy, eyes hooding low. He threw Corteo’s glasses over his shoulder, Corteo cringed at the sound of the glass shattering and crunching. 

“Avilio wants to kill Nero,” Corteo’s mouth pinched up into a line, “We can work with you— I have nowhere else to go—” he hated that his lower lip quivered. “Whatever you want.” 

Fango tugged him up roughly so their eyes locked, “Whatever I want, eh?” A slow smirk stretched out across his mouth. “Well then, Corty-baby, let’s—”

Corteo lurched forward and slammed their lips together— gracelessly and too hard, his busted lip ached and a soft whimper escaped his mouth. Fango’s hand knotted up in the back of his hair as he slotted their mouths together properly. Fango tasted like the heady burn of alcohol and Corteo felt like could drown. He twisted his thumb against busted up flesh and got a low moan for his effort. 

“Desperation is a good look on you,” Fango’s voice felt hot and dangerous against his lips.

Corteo blinked rapidly and shook his head, “I don’t have anyone else.” He dug his thumbnail in next to a shard of glass and watched a sluggish scab open up to ooze fresh blood. Fango’s eyes clouded over with obvious lust and interest.

Fango tugged on his hair, further ruining it’s already mussed coif. Corteo grit his teeth as a wavy curl flopped across his forehead. Fango’s teeth closed over Corteo’s lower lip— giving a soft tug. His split lip throbbed in protest and when Fango kissed him again it tasted unmistakably like blood. 

Corteo fought to hold onto his shoulder, to not lose himself to the feeling— but he’d felt like his edges had been blurring before, and now they’d basically disappeared. He wanted to laugh, something hollow and brittle, instead he just kissed back harder.

* * *

Corteo scrubbed at his hands, dug under his nails and pulled on his cuticles. Even with his skin raw and pink the water still _looked_ red. His lower back ached, body swollen and bruised; he felt like he’d been shoved through a meat grinder, which he thought humorously, could still technically happen.

He tried not to think of fingertips bruising into his hipbones or the heavy weight of Fango at his back. Corteo felt bile crawling up the back of his throat. He could still smell the tank, metallic stentch of blood. 

“If you stay here, the Vanettis will know.” Corteo twisted to look out the bathroom door. Fango laid out in the bed, cigarette balanced between his fingers and shoulder haphazardly bandaged. 

Corteo wrung his wet hands against a towel— fully expecting to see a trail of red even if they were clean. He squinted at his blurry reflection in the mirror— image wobbling and unclear. “I can’t.” Corteo stumbled away from it and shook his head. 

Fango gave a sharp pat to the bed, “Use your words, kid; what can’t you do?” He blew out a plume of smoke with a grin playing on the corners of his mouth.

“Go back,” Corteo collapsed down onto the bed. He stared up at the ugly, pasty white ceiling, “They already know.”

Fango nodded along, smoke curling out from his nostrils. Corteo frowned and twisted over onto his side away from him. Fango’s hand closed on his shoulder and jerked him back over, “Oh, don’t be like that, Corty-baby, I’ll let you stay.” Corteo blinked, trying not to _cry_ or something equally stupid. Fango grinned at him, mean and taunting, “But they’re going to send guys after you.”

Corteo shook his head, “I don’t care.” He sat up and drew his knees up toward his chest. Fango threw his arm across his shoulders and took another drag of his cigarette. Corteo could see the splotches of red starting to bleed back through the bandage. “I need to call Avilio.”

“Oh,” Fango tsked at him. His lips pinched up patronizingly, “Calm down, we’ll have Cerotto give him a ring tomorrow.” Corteo’s gut churned with nerves but he forced himself to nod anyway.

* * *

Avilio’s fingers twisted up in the phone cord. His lips thinned out in a tight, white line. “Make it quick Cerotto.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure neither Nero or Barbero or one of the others had decided to wander in. 

“It’s Corteo.”

Avilio glared at an ugly painting across the room— garish thing with a gold plated frame— he could feel something churning in his gut like an unravelling thread he couldn’t follow. He didn’t say anything, just hummed low in his throat.

“He’s,” On the other line he could hear his dry swallow, _“Here.”_

Part of Avilio already _knew—_ he knew Barbero knew too. But luckily Nero still didn’t have a clue; then again, Avilio thought, he’d barely know how to get dressed himself without a full retinue to dote on him. Few days out on the road in a shitty car had almost been enough to break him down. 

“Angelo Lagusa.” He tightened his grip on the phone, “Tell him that.”

“Uh, okay, Avilio, but—” Avilio hung up the phone. He flexed his hands, trying to will blood flow back into his hands. He twisted around to see Barbero entering the room. He looked haggard, purple bags underneath his eyes. Avilio wondered if he could already feel his control slipping from his fingers.

“We received word Corteo went to the Island.” 

Avilio glanced to the side— back toward that hideous picture. “Barbero,” the colors looked like a smear of purples and reds, “Nero is close with Ganzo, isn’t he?” 

A tight furrow pinched between Barbero’s brows.

* * *

Cerotto stared at the phone cradled limply in his hands. He scratched at his cheek, “Uh, so he hung up on me.” Fango tipped back in his chair as gestured with his hand in a flourish for him to continue. Cerotto frowned, “He sounded real odd.” 

Corteo pulled at a loose thread of his shirt. “What did he say?” 

Cerotto coughed into his hand, “Just some name?” He shrugged up a shoulder, “Angelo Lagusa, he said to tell you?” 

Corteo’s mouth fell open. Fango didn’t look like he really cared. He tossed a bullet up into the air with utter indifference. Then he looked at Corteo, saw the stupefied shock and a smile stretched out across his mouth. He caught the bullet in his palm and ambled up to his feet. He pinched the bullet between his fingers and stared at Corteo. “Well, you gonna share with us?”

Corteo tried to clear his throat, “Avilio is—” before he could finish, Fango’s hand knotted up in his collar and hauled him toward the desk. Corteo’s fingernails dug into his hand. His back landed on the desk so hard all the air escaped from his lungs in a wheeze. He felt dizzy for a moment with Fango leering over him. Corteo tried to speak, but could only manage a soft gasp.

“Oh, Corty-baby,” Fango pulled his revolver out of the back of his pants. He opened up the chamber and pushed the bullet inside. “You ever play roulette?”

Corteo shook his head, a nervous sweat beading along his hairline. He stared desperately toward Cerotto, who’d apparently found religion staring out the window. Fango’s hand gripped his jaw, Corteo gagged on a cry when the barrel of the gun shoved into his mouth. It tasted foul: like gunpowder and metal, he thought manically of when he’d sucked on a penny as a child on Luce’s dare—

Corteo’s fingers tightened on Fango’s hand to try and wrestle him away. Fango hummed low under his breath, hand drawing the hammer of the gun back, “Why don’t you tell me a story: once upon a time, a guy found a stray dog. He groomed him, fed him,” he pressed the gun forward and a whimper caught in the back of Corteo’s throat. “So finish it, Corteo? Do you think the dog is going to bite his master’s hand?”

“He’s not—” Corteo felt drool gathering on the side of his mouth. His voice sounded muffled and he couldn’t help gagging again. “Their dog.” Fango threw his head back and _laughed_. “He’s not!”

Fango grinned down at him with barely restrained cruelty. “Oh, he isn’t?” The gun whipped out of his mouth, moving to shove underneath his chin. Corteo cringed at how _wet_ it felt.

“His name is Angelo Lagusa,” Corteo cringed at the feel of metal biting at him. Fango didn’t look impressed, didn’t seem to _understand_. “Testa Lagusa was his father.”

“This is a _boring_ story, isn’t it, Cerotto?” Cerotto blanched a shade of green and just nodded. 

Corteo tried to lunge upward, gun shoving roughly against his neck. “The Vanettis killed his entire family!” He let out a sharp laugh, something damn near hysterical, “How do you not know who they were?”

Fango looked only just barely interested, his eyes narrowed, “Oh, so what? Avilio is out for blood?” 

“Yes!” Corteo tried to wiggle away and Fango’s hand slammed down on his chest. He only just managed to croak out: “He’s going to kill Nero and Vincente!” Fango hummed low under his breath. He yanked Corteo up by the front of his shirt to sit. Corteo rubbed the back of hand across his mouth and tried to stifle a cough. Fango drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk. Corteo shook his head and repeated, “He’s not their dog.”

Fango pressed a fingertip against the tip of his nose, “Oh, I don’t know about _that_ , kiddo, but what mad dog couldn’t use a new owner?”


	5. Chapter 5

Fango ran the tip of the switchblade underneath his nails, chipping at the crusted blood that’d made its home along his nail bed. He pushed himself up to his feet, “Corteo! Get your ass in here.”

Corteo cleared his throat from where he stood in the corner. When he finally spoke his voice came out quiet, “I’m here.”

Fango held a hand up to his ear, “Are you?” He gestured with the knife, twirling the hilt in his hand, _“If_ you are, why are you still standing over there?”

Corteo took a step forward. Fango’s nostrils flared, Corteo reeked of stale sweat and alcohol. He reached out and grabbed a hold of his wrist. Corteo only let out a small grunt in response to being tugged over. His eyes were purpled with bags and bloodshot. 

Fango clicked his tongue, “Oh, What’s wrong?”

Corteo’s face twisted up into a tight frown. Fango yanked him in close. He lifted up the knife and pointed it toward Corteo’s eye. Corteo’s eyes widened, neck craning back. Fango grabbed onto his nape and pressed the point of the knife underneath his eye. He watched a tiny pinprick of blood bead up. Corteo’s pupils blew open wide. 

Fango leaned in closer, breath warm against Corteo’s cheek, “This get you hot too?” He reached his other hand down, pressing between Corteo’s legs. Corteo stifled a breath, but Fango could feel the growing hardness there.

Corteo shook his head, trying to look to the side. Fango stroked the knife down along his cheekbone. He clicked his tongue in a mockery of disapproval.  
“C’mon, kid, you can tell me—”

Fango hated being interrupted as a matter of principle. And when the door swung open, he threw the knife right toward it. 

He glanced first to the knife— it’d stuck itself in the doorframe. He whistled low under his breath. Avilio stood there in a worn out coat and soaked from the rain outside. He quirked up an eyebrow up, “You missed.” Avilio walked into the room, barely sparing a sideways glance toward Corteo before he dumped a pack of matches on the desk. 

Fango’s eyes narrowed, “That supposed to be a gift for me?”

He pulled himself up to sit, head lazily reclining to the side, “You hear about the fire at the Lodge?” Fango hadn’t, not yet at least— but that information would be finding its way to him soon enough. 

He slowly clapped his hands together, “Well done, my boy!” He heard Corteo’s sharp intake of breath. Avilio nodded, eyes clouded over in a way that had him looking more dead than alive. 

“Vincent is the only one left,” Avilio tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling. “He’s old and sick.”

“Sounds like easy pickings.” 

“He’ll die on his own soon enough anyway,” Avilio sighed, “Then Lawless is yours.” He stared up through the curtain of his dark bangs, haughty and goading, “You’re welcome.”

“Well, Avilio, I didn’t think you had it in you!” Fango leaned over and pinched Corteo’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger, “Corty told me you would, but _well_ ,” He clicked his tongue, “We both know how he feels about _you_.” Corteo wrestled out of his grip with a frown. 

Corteo stared at Avilio with wide, hopeful eyes: the type of look Fango longed to crush under the hell of his boot. Corteo took a step toward his friend: “Avilio, where will you—” 

Fango belted out a laugh, “Oh, _sweetheart_ , don’t get any grand ideas about running off together like a pair of star crossed lovers— You _begged_ to brew moonshine for me.” His eyes narrowed, “You gonna go back on that?” Corteo’s form deflated and he shook his head.

Avilio stared down toward the floor. He ran his thumb against his other palm. “Fango,” he spoke his name like a promise, “If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?”

“Oh, baby, I’m open for requests.”

Avilio hummed low in his throat, “A gun is fine.” Corteo took a step toward him. His lower lip quivered— Fango wondered if he might actually cry. 

Corteo shook his head and his mouth thinned into something determined and grim. He turned back toward Fango, “You’re going to kill the rest of the Vanettis?”

“Sure am,” Fango shrugged up his shoulders, “I’ll string their old man up like a damn piñata.” He walked closer and casually tossed an arm across Avilio’s shoulders. “And you’re going to help me do it.”

Avilio’s eyes squinted, “What?”

“Oh, c’mon, kid,” Fango shook his head, “How stupid do you think I am? Either you leave this room a member of the Fango family or I take you out in a body bag.” He gave a pat to Avilio’s shoulder. “It’ll be just like old times.” 

Avilio frowned but nodded anyway. Fango didn’t miss how _relieved_ Corteo looked— he just didn’t really _care_ either way.

* * *

Avilio laid back propped against Corteo’s thighs, his shirt pulled up under his arms and the skin of his stomach quivering. He jerked his chin up, “Do it.” Behind him, Corteo trembled. 

Fango lunged forward, tip of the knife pressing up against the soft skin of his neck. Avilio’s breath caught momentarily in his throat. He could feel the cold pressure, the sharpness just enough to cut him and he could feel the small bead of blood rolling down his skin. 

“You think you’re making the rules, kid?” 

Avilio grinned at him. Fango huffed out a breath, blade stroking down against his throat to his clavicle. Avilio could feel Corteo trembling, more importantly he stank of moonshine and cigarettes— but underneath that he smelt warm like milk and honey or cinnamon. Avilio twisted his head to the side and inhaled against Corteo’s pant leg. 

Fango drifted down lower, knife coming to rest at the flat of his stomach. When the blade cut in, Avilio couldn’t stop the shout bubbling up from his throat. _“Shit_.” He’d cut deep, deeper than Avilio expected, and he could see a long line of blood oozing out of the wound. 

Fango _twisted_ the knife, pivoting harshly to the side. Avilio’s vision whitened out for a moment, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth could’ve _creaked_. He inhaled sharply, staring down at the perfect perpendicular lines. Corteo’s hands bunched up against his shirt. 

Fango’s fingertips drummed against his hipbone. His tongue poked out between his lips as he surveyed the two lines. He dug the knife back in at the center to finish the _‘F’_. Corteo lurched forward, grabbing onto Fango’s wrist. “Stop.” Fango’s eyes flashed as he licked his lower lip. 

Avilio tipped his chin back and shook his head sharply. Corteo released Fango and settled back on his haunches with his mouth pinched into a frown. Avilio’s stomach trembled when the knife bit in again. 

It still _hurt_ , but he couldn’t muster the energy up to care. He almost felt relieved that he could even still feel. Fango made quick, sloppy work out of the rest of the letters. Corteo looked upset but had the sense not to interrupt again.

Fango sat back and surveyed his handiwork with a self-satisfied grin. “Now you’re an official part of the family.”

Avilio stared down at the crooked, inflamed letters: _FANGO_. He wondered if he should feel like cattle: ready to be branded and sent off for slaughter. He couldn’t make himself care much either way. Avilio stretched his arms out, “You do this for everyone?”

Fango lifted the bloody blade up against his mouth, “Only the ones I like,” The flat of his tongue ran along it. He held his other hand out toward Corteo and wiggled his fingers.Corteo’s frown deepened but he otherwise didn’t move. Fango snapped his fingers, “I could always take a tongue—” before he could finish Corteo shoved his hand out toward him. He tipped his chin up, trying to look confident but Avilio could see him shaking. 

Fango’s fingers gripped his forearm and yanked him out from under Avilio. Avilio let out a grunt when the back of his head hit the mattress. Corteo tried to pull away on instinct only to be firmly tugged back. Avilio propped himself up on his elbows, “It’s not that bad, Corteo.”

Corteo’s lower lip wobbled but he nodded and straightened up. His whole expression twisted up when the point of the knife dug into his forearm. Fango’s fingernails bit red, crescent cuts into his skin above where the knife sliced into him. Corteo whimpered, other hand tightening on the blanket in an effort not to react. No matter how hard he tried though Avilio could see tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

The knife drew back suddenly, leaving one very ugly _‘F’_ on Corteo’s arm. Avilio raised an eyebrow, “Not going to finish?”

Fango reached between his legs and obviously adjusted the bulge in his pants. “You’ve made me too excited; I’d hate to... _slip._ ” 

Avilio peeled out of his shirt and his drawers. The wound on his stomach continued to sluggishly bleed. He wrinkled his nose up at the sight of the inflamed edges just starting to scab. “Avilio...” Corteo had tugged his own clothes off to expose smooth, tan skin. His face looked surprisingly soft and _open_. The look left Avilio feeling weak.

He pushed Corteo down onto his back and stroked his hands across warm and soft skin. His thighs bracketed around Avilio’s hips and felt so solid and firm. Avilio dipped a hand down between his legs. Corteo blinked, glasses slipping down his nose and his thighs trembling with anticipation. Avilio’s fingertip pushed against him, pressing inside the tight heat. Corteo choked on a moan, breath coming out warm enough it fogged his glasses. He wrestled them off his face, half heartedly flinging them onto the nightstand.

Avilio crooked his finger up, watching Corteo gasp quietly and shiver with want. Corteo’s hands knotted up in the sheets. Avilio pressed in another finger and watched a broken moan slip from his mouth. 

Fango flopped down onto his back, “You boys are making me jealous.” The movement jostled the two of them and had Corteo letting out a small sound. Fango stretched out his arms and quite pointedly undulated his hips up. Avilio rolled his eyes and ambled up off Corteo. He moved closer to Fango and got an eager smirk as his reward. 

Avilio ran a hand along the pink scar tissue mottling his shoulder. The bruising had faded but still looked yellow in some places. He dug his thumb into a particularly tender looking spot. “This is new.” 

“Courtesy of Corteo,” Fango laughed. Corteo’s ears reddened and he looked away from them. Fango snapped his fingers, “Speaking of...” he drawled slowly, “You’re up.” Corteo’s hands fumbled together and his teeth closed over his lower lip. “ _Any day now_.” 

Corteo finally moved to straddle Fango hips. He gently reached between his legs and took him in hand. Fango let out a low, approving groan as Corteo guided him in. Avilio watched Corteo’s mouth drop into a tiny ‘o’. He slowly pushed down only for Fango to roughly yank his hips. Corteo’s face pinched up and Avilio could imagine the thick burn running through his body.

Corteo pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, other hand twisting up in the sheets to try and brace himself. A broken moan slipped out from him anyway. 

Fango clicked his tongue, “C’mon, boy! Don’t make me do everything.” He bucked his hips up. Avilio knotted a hand up in Fango’s hair and sharply tugged. Fango grinned at him so widely he could see the points of his canines. Corteo snapped his hips forward and left Fango excitedly moaning, “Attaboy! Now that’s more like it!”

Avilio rolled his eyes, “I think you have better things to do with your mouth.” He threw his knee over Fango’s head and settled down to straddle him. Fango let out a sharp bark of laughter as one of his hands grabbed onto Avilio’s thigh. Luckily he took the hint and his tongue dragged a long line against his perineum. 

Avilio trembled, hips pushing back against the firm wetness. He settled back, not the least bit concerned about if Fango could breathe— he seemed to like it going by the eager pumping of his hips; Corteo looked like a mess, hair askew and just trying to keep up. Avilio smiled at him and when he noticed a dark flush broke out across his chest. 

Fango’s tongue felt so hot and slick when it pushed inside him. Avilio let out a quiet grunt in approval and did his best to widen his stance. Corteo choked on a noise, biting his hand in an effort to stay quiet as he rolled his hips forward to meet Fango. He felt sloppy and wet and _dirty—_ and like this Avilio felt like he could be _alive_ again. His heart thumped in his chest and fresh blood spilled out from the cuts on his stomach.

He didn’t care what hell waited for him. His hands dripped with sin and hate and in comparison lust seemed like such a trivial thing. Avilio grinned and for the first time in a very long time he meant it.

* * *

Avilio flicked his wrist out wide the wide expanse of ocean waves crashing into the shore. “You can leave.” He twisted to face Corteo, “I’d help you.” Corteo’s fingertips ran across the scar tissue on his forearm: stroking along the _’F’_ carved there. 

“Would you go with me?” The words felt heavy on Corteo’s tongue. Avilio stayed silent, and honestly the answer didn’t matter because Corteo already knew. He’d known from the moment Avilio tumbled through his doorway with a blood-soaked wrench in hand. He just hadn’t wanted to accept it, but it’d all been _different_ since they boarded that stupid boat to the Island. Corteo shook his head, and his words sounded hollow even to him, “Vincent isn’t dead yet.”

“He’s as good as,” Avilio leaned back against the balcony, “His family, everything he built,” He shrugged up a shoulder, “I destroyed it.” 

Corteo wanted to ask him if it’d be worth it. But he worried he already knew that answer too. Corteo stared down into the lonely, dark waves. “You can’t, can you?”

Avilio lit a match, illuminating a swatch of the darkness around them. He took a long drag of his cigarette and held it out to Corteo, “I don’t know who I’d be.” 

Corteo nodded and accepted it. He inhaled the smoke and cherished the vicious bite at his lungs. He flicked off the line of ash. “Me either.” And he didn’t know if he meant himself or Avilio or both of them. Regardless, the answer wouldn’t change. Avilio nodded and turned to look into the waves too. Corteo wondered if he’d contemplated crawling over the railing and stepping off to the plummeting depths below. Smoke spilled from Corteo’s mouth, “Do you want me to stay?”

Avilio rapped his knuckles against his shoulder, “What about college?” 

Corteo humorlessly held up his scarred arm and rolled his eyes. He gestured with his finger back to the door inside, “I have a job making moonshine _for the mob_ , What else do I need?” Corteo hated that his voice wobbled. He shook his head, “I want you to know, Angelo, no matter what I’d make the same choice every single time.” He rubbed a hand down his face.

Avilio’s hand reached out and pulled Corteo close. Corteo sagged against him, inhaled the scent of his cheap cologne and something sickeningly sweet. Avilio’s voice sounded soft, “I know.”

Corteo let out a watery laugh, “Then don’t ask me to leave.” 

Avilio nodded, “I won’t.” 

Wrapped up in Avilio’s arms with the sound of the sea in the background, Corteo didn’t think things turned out too bad: even though they’d had to make a deal with a leather-chap-wearing devil, at least for now they were both alive and _together_.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this is a show I really enjoyed watching and I loved writing for; if you happened to read and you enjoyed it, I’m very glad! :)


End file.
